


Feel the Burn

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Beard Burn, Caretaker Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Face-Sitting, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Honey, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, sex injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: Jaskier frowns as he tries—and fails… miserably—to make himself comfortable on the wooden stool situated opposite Geralt. When he’d told his Witcher to fuck him so hard that he’d be feeling him for a week, this was decidedly not what he’d had in mind…AKAGeralt gives Jaskier beard burn, and has a rather...interestingplan to make it up to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 711
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	Feel the Burn

Jaskier frowns as he tries—and fails…  _ miserably _ —to make himself comfortable on the wooden stool situated opposite Geralt. When he’d told his Witcher to fuck him so hard that he’d be feeling him for a week, this was decidedly  _ not _ what he’d had in mind…

His skin is on  _ fire _ , and not the  _ fun _ sort that accompanies blood rushing to all the right places as bright tendrils of pleasure crept along one’s spine. No, this is fire of an entirely different sort, and it burns like the nip of a candle’s flame to the delicate pad of a finger… except, instead of a  _ candle _ flame, it’s rather more like a forest fire, and rather than a  _ finger _ , it’s his bloody taint. And the cause of his current distress is stretched innocuously over a finely chiseled jaw, it’s owner eyeing him with  _ clear _ amusement over the rim of his tankard of ale. 

Geralt had given him bloody  _ beard burn _ . He hadn’t thought it possible, considering that the Witcher’s so-called ‘beard’ was more of a ‘five o’ clock shadow’ at best. Admittedly, his brain had kind of…  _ short-circuited _ when Geralt suggested that he sit on his face, and he’d lost the ability to think coherently as he straddled the Witcher’s gorgeous face and fisted a handful of that gloriously soft silver-white hair and rode that sinful tongue until he was practically  _ weeping _ from pleasure. Curse Witchers and their stupidly huge lungs and their ability to go for insane stretches of time without  _ breathing _ …

And Geralt… Geralt is  _ snickering _ , doing his best to conceal his amusement as he takes another swig of the swill the barkeep liked to claim was alcohol. He licks his lips to catch a stray droplet of ale, the bones in his jaw shifting and flexing and  _ damn it _ , now Jaskier is fidgeting for an entirely  _ different _ reason. He  _ wants _ to bitch that this isn’t funny, that they wouldn’t be in this position if Geralt gave two shits about his appearance and kept himself smooth and clean-shaven, but bites his tongue, instead choosing to lament that he had been so kind as to rub chamomile on the Witcher’s aching bum when  _ he _ was hurt. It’s a sorry sort of thanks.

“Jaskier,” the Witcher’s mouth is spread in a lazy grin that does funny things to Jaskier’s insides, “if you continue on like that, you’re liable to break the stool.” And sure enough, the wood offers a weak squeal as Jaskier shifts yet again, one of the wooden legs rocking ominously. 

“Yes, well, how about  _ you _ try sitting on a burn the size of a grown man’s jawline, hmm? I don’t care  _ how _ many times you made me cum—,” he hisses through tightly clenched teeth, cornflower blue eyes skirting about to make sure that noone within earshot was listening too intently to the specifics of their conversation. 

“Three.” Geralt supplies, “You came three times. Four, if you count the very end, where that pretty little cock of yours was so red and tender, I wasn’t sure you’d be able to—,”

Jaskier flushes bright scarlet, momentarily losing his train of thought. The burning heat between his legs is quick to bring him back to reality, “Enjoy the memories, because we won’t be doing that again until  _ this,”  _ Jaskier reaches across the table to drag his fingers through the Witcher’s stubble, “comes off.”

The Witcher sighs. Although he continues to look  _ terribly _ amused by the whole ordeal, he at least seems to be  _ moderately _ sympathetic to the bard’s plight. “Does it truly hurt that badly?”

“Have I been known to exaggerate?” Geralt raises one silver-white eyebrow, uncertain as to whether Jaskier is actually seeking an answer to that question. “You know what, don’t answer that. I’ll just say it doesn’t feel  _ good _ .”

“Hmm,” Geralt seems to consider this for a moment, before asking, “Can you walk?”

“C-Can I… I’ve done nothing  _ but _ walk for the last several hours! What, now I can’t walk just because you’ve discovered a raging fire in my loins—,” Geralt remains silent as the bard’s brain catches up with his mouth, “...Yes, Geralt. I can walk.” He finishes, voice weak. 

“Good,” he stands, fingers curling around the bard’s wrist as he all but drags him out of his seat, dropping far too many shiny golden coins in his haste to be just about  _ anywhere _ else. 

Their room is close, thank the gods, because for all his protests Jaskier finds that his legs  _ are _ rather weak. His eyes are focused on that massive hand curled around his wrist, which seems to dwarf him in all the right ways. He stumbles… more times than he cares to admit as Geralt leads him up the stairs, a little too anxious to discover whatever it is that Geralt’s planning in that devious mind of his. Jaskier vaguely recalls his mother warning him to watch out for the quiet ones as the door to their room unlocks with a soft  _ click _ and Geralt sweeps him inside, gently guiding him down to lay flat on his stomach upon the blissfully  _ soft _ mattress.

He hears Geralt instruct him to remove his pants and small clothes from somewhere in the distance, and he does, though he feels inclined to remind the Witcher that he’s not necessarily in the mood for a tumble before bed. It’s then that he notices the Witcher digging his satchel, his long, thick fingers curling around a vial of familiar viscous, amber-colored liquid.  _ Honey _ . The bard always kept some on hand, as a few drops mixed into his tea did  _ wonders _ for an aching throat… but he didn’t understand what use the Witcher would have for it, not—

Geralt upends the vial, pouring a liberal amount of honey over his fingers. “Did you know, little lark, that honey has a number of medicinal properties?” He strokes a hand over Jaskier’s reddened ass cheeks, before digging his fingers into the firm meat and spreading them wide to reveal a twitching pucker and red, irritated skin. 

“A-Ahh, Geralt, what’re you…?  _ Ohh _ …” Jaskier bites his lip, a song-like moan tearing from his throat as Geralt spreads the warm, viscous liquid over his burns. That… That’s  _ nice _ …

Geralt hums, “It is particularly good for treating burns.” He continues, “Though I’d hardly call  _ this _ a burn.”

“...I will shave you in your sleep, if need be—F- _ Fuck _ , what… Gods, what was  _ that _ ?”

“I’d like to see you try.” He snorts, before blowing cool air on Jaskier’s naked, honey-drenched ass once more. Jaskier shudders, unconsciously rutting his hips down into the mattress and dragging his half-hard cock along the sheets. “As I was saying—,” the bard cuts him off with an incredibly  _ loud _ , drawn-out moan.

“I hope you realize, darling, that anything you say from here on out is going to go straight in one ear and out the other.” Jaskier says, batting his long, coal-dark lashes in a show of faux innocence. 

He wants the Witcher to  _ taste _ him, to bury his face between the bard’s legs and lap at the honey that drips and oozes and slides over his flesh—though there’s a small little voice in the back of his head that reminds him that the Witcher’s stubbly face is what landed them in this predicament in the first place. On second thought, maybe it would be best if he kept his tongue to himself… but those  _ fingers _ … Geralt is muttering absolute  _ filth _ about how pretty Jaskier had looked, wanton and wanting, fucking himself against the Witcher’s face, as his fingers tease along the bard’s aching, puffy rim, applying just enough pressure for the middle finger to dip inside and…

_ Gods _ , the stretch isn’t much, but combined with the burn that still lingers in his cheeks, his taint, his  _ genitals _ , it’s absolutely fucking  _ everything _ . That finger presses inside, the movement so very slow, like thick, amber honey dripping from the vial… the honey that coats his finger makes the intrusion feel sticky, foreign,  _ new _ … The logical part of his brain warns that he’ll be absolutely furious when trying to scrub himself clean of dried, crystalized honey… but at the moment it simply feels too  _ good _ to care. Jaskier would worry about the rest later… perhaps coax the Witcher into a steaming-hot bath where they could spend an inordinate amount of time scrubbing one another clean…

“Mmm… clearly I’m not doing my job, if you still have the mental faculties to keep that mind of yours running at top-speed.” Geralt sighs, sliding another finger in alongside the first and scissoring them lazily. “Do you know what  _ else _ acts as an excellent pain reliever, little lark?”

“W-Wha…?” Is he drooling? Probably. But the calloused pads of Geralt’s fingers are working over his prostate, pressing down on the little bundle of nerves in slow, steady circles, and he thinks that he may have transcended from this earthly plane because  _ holy fucking shit _ —

Geralt’s teeth graze over the curve of his ass, clamping down to leave a dark, red-purple bruise. “An orgasm.”

“I—ahh,  _ fuck _ yes…  _ yesss _ —I think that’s j-just for abdominal p-p- _ pain _ …” he keens, eyes rolling back into his head, as Geralt’s free hand comes around to curl around his cock.

“Hmm… want to bet?”

Geralt’s hand feels  _ amazing _ curled around his cock, and after a handful of long, lazy strokes he has the other man rocking to meet each thrust of his fingers into his tight, clenching channel. At one point Jaskier is almost certain that he actually began to sing, which may be the most embarrassing thing to happen in the expansive history of his sex life… but Geralt just chuckles and bends overtop of him to nibble at his ear and whisper about how absolutely  _ gorgeous _ he looks falling apart on his fingers and  _ fuck _ , he moans so loud he’s certain the neighbors can hear through the paper-thin walls as he spends and promptly collapses in a heap in the middle of the bed.

Geralt slowly slides his fingers free, making a show of licking the remaining honey off of the sticky digits. “So…” he murmurs, “How does your ass feel now?” 

Jaskier turns his head just enough to look at him, a pretty blush clinging to his high cheekbones. “B-Better.” But then, “You’re still going to shave, though.”


End file.
